


Nuclear Fiction

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: How Novel [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Chemistry, Chemistry references, Dating, Flirting, Getting to Know Each Other, Insecure Sherlock, John is a Flirt, Kissing, M/M, Mystery Stories, Romance, Sherlock is a bit of a fanboy, Shy Sherlock, Texting, Unilock, Writer John, grammar humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-10 22:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15959012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: "I finished the book.""And what did you think?""It was... good."John’s eyebrows lift, and an amused look plays across his features. “Just good? That’s it? That’s all I get?”Sequel toA Novel Meeting—Sherlock and John have a second date and learn more about each other. Plus Sherlock goes a bit fanboy on John's newest book.





	Nuclear Fiction

Sherlock told John he would not be texting for a while, but that quickly proves to be a lie. He has managed to hold out until page 42, but by this point, he can no longer resist.

He leaps up from his armchair and locates his bag—he will have to remember to purchase a new one soon, as this one split the night before. Digging out his mobile, he types out a quick message to John, barely concealing his grin.

_Sherrinford IS alive! SH_

He sends it, pauses, then sends off another.

 _You did an admirable job explaining that, by the way. SH_ _  
_

He grabs his book and flops back down—on the sofa this time—and opens it up. However, before he can read more than a paragraph, the clock on the mantle chimes, and he glances up. His eyes widen in shock. It is half past one in the morning.

Another text joins the other two.

_Oh, I suppose you’re sleeping. Apologies if I disturbed your rest. SH_

A few minutes pass with no response, and so Sherlock shoots off another message.

_Or perhaps you’re sleeping through all of this. SH_

He continues reading for nearly an hour before finally drifting off, right there on the sofa. And if his dreams contain detectives, bookstores, and charming writers with stunning smiles, well, who has to know?

 

* * *

 

_Two days later..._

Sherlock flips the last page of _Murder in Marylebone_ over, then moves to close the book with a small smile. He freezes, though, and instead turns to the back flap of the book jacket.

Grinning up at him, a pen mid-twirl in his fingers, is John Watson. Sherlock examines the picture—though it's not a new one, having appeared on the last three books—and tries to keep from beaming.

John looks a bit younger here than he does in real life. Sherlock estimates he was about twenty-three when the photo was taken, and his hair then was a bit shorter, styled differently.

“This is all your fault you know,” Sherlock tells the photo-John, glancing at the date on his phone. “Three days.” He shakes his head in self-deprecation (both at his words, and at the fact that he's talking to a picture).

He never takes this long to finish a novel normally. Every other Sherrinford and Sacker book he devoured in less than a day. But this time, he found himself continually distracted.

John's voice has become James Sacker's voice. John's smile is now Sherrinford’s smile. John’s inflection echoes through each syllable of prose. And worse, Sherlock's own conversation with John has continually seeped into his mind, on near-constant replay even as he tried to lose himself in the book, which is, in truth, quite good. Yet even despite that, he has found himself drifting away from the story back to the book signing. Hence why it has taken thrice as long for him to finish reading.

He sets the book on his lap, scoops his phone off the table, and unlocks it. John replied to his earlier messages the following morning— _Glad you’re enjoying it! :)_ —but this is the first time they will have spoken since then. Sherlock has had classes, and he assumes John has had things to do as well. It occurs to him he has no idea what the writer does, other than write and attend book signings. Hmm. He shall have to investigate that.

He gives his text a rapid once-over.

_I’ve finished the book. Might we meet to talk about it? Unless you’re busy, of course. I’d understand if you have a lot to do right now, with the new book out and all. Just a thought. SH_

Satisfied, he sends it, then sprawls onto his bed and begins flipping through _Murder in Marylebone_ again. He's rereading Sacker and Sherrinford’s reunion scene when yet another intrusive thought about John occurs to him, and he is sent scrambling for his phone yet again.

_It doesn’t have to be a date or anything. SH_

After all, he has not been kidding himself; the coffee date with John had been lovely. But also… well, it actually reminded him of a meeting of iodine and ammonia. Mostly harmless substances when considered individually, but after one brings them together, one wrong move invites breathtaking destruction.

So Sherlock is keeping his expectations low. He is a mere uni student, and a socially inept one with a strange horse-like face and an inability to keep his mouth closed at that. John, on the other hand, is a successful published author with an actual fanbase. What appeal can Sherlock truly hold for him?

Yes, it is most likely that the man will think better of spending time with Sherlock. It is only a matter of time before John makes that decision on his own, or Sherlock does something to upset him and drive him away. And their rapport turns to cinders in an instant.

At that moment, his phone buzzes. In spite of all these doubts, his dive for the mobile is frantic and eager. But when he opens the message, his entire body stiffens in shock.

_I’d prefer it to be a date, if that’s okay_

Although he is alone, Sherlock feels his face start to flame with heat. He bites his lip, and somehow during his efforts to reply with haste, ends up sending a rather absurd, fragmented response.

_Oh. Okay. Good. I know a good Chinese place. Dinner? SH_

“What are you thinking, Sherlock?” he mutters, seconds too late. The message is already gone. No recalling it now. But why on earth would John want to go to dinner with him, when he’s probably got plenty of other things to do, plenty of other people to see? In fact, he could have other people he might want to date.

John’s reply arrives barely a minute later, and this time, Sherlock can do nothing to prevent the intense blush that once again floods his cheeks.

_How about lunch? I rather fancy seeing you sooner than dinner._

 

* * *

 

Later that afternoon, Sherlock stands on the pavement of a narrow residential street in the center of Zone 2 in northwest London. It’s on the (relatively) poorer edge of a posh area, though still far beyond the reach of Sherlock’s own budget. He can only afford his current home because of Mrs. Hudson, no other reason.

Above him is a flat, the exterior all in a dark brick, the shutters painted a deep, rich green.

He takes a breath, then presses send on his phone, adjusting _Murder in Marylebone_ where it is cradled in his arms.

_I’m here. SH_

And then, barely ten seconds later:

_Well stop loitering on the pavement and come up then ;)_

He barely resists the urge to jump and whips his gaze toward the window above him. Standing silhouetted by a light behind him is John, who has pushed back the curtain and is watching Sherlock with a grin on his face. He catches Sherlock’s eye and waves.

So Sherlock makes his way into the building—John immediately buzzes him in—and up the stairs to the second floor flat. He knocks, and is greeted in a mere second by a still-smiling John.

“Hey lovely,” the writer says, pulling Sherlock close to give him a light kiss on the cheek.

“Hi,” Sherlock says, internally cursing at how soft and uncertain his voice comes out. He certainly had not been expecting _that_ greeting.

“So, I see you brought your book and everything,” John says. “But could you just give me one minute? I’ve got to finish writing down something—”

He moves further into the flat, but Sherlock hesitates on the threshold. “Of—of course, go ahead,” he replies.

“Thanks. Come in, make yourself at home.” John waves at the area in general as he retreats back to a desk positioned under the large window and leans over several scattered papers there to scrawl something down.

Sherlock moves tentatively into the flat, gazing around. The space is a studio unit, the bedroom, toilet, and kitchen farther back, the sitting room the part he stands in. In addition to the desk, there is a sofa, television, squashy-looking armchair, and, most importantly, a large bookshelf that serves as a room divider between the sitting room and the kitchen.

Although Sherlock wants to examine the contents of those shelves, he is not sure that is allowed. Instead, he sits down on the sofa and turns his attention to John. The man is still writing. His tongue protrudes just a hint from between his lips, a sight that Sherlock finds himself rather taken with for several seconds before he can drag his focus elsewhere.

John is wearing a pair of dark-wash jeans, soft-looking wool socks, and a royal blue button-up. Eyeing him, Sherlock observes this is the third shirt he’s put on in the last half-hour or so. Obvious from his wrists. But why? Surely… surely he is not trying to impress _Sherlock_ , is he?

“Right, sorry,” John says as he spins around to face Sherlock. “I wanted to get that down before I forgot it.”

Sherlock nods. “You look nice,” he says before he can think better of it. He is gratified when John’s ears flush pink. Ah. Perhaps he _is_ trying to impress Sherlock. Interesting.

“Thanks,” he mutters, joining Sherlock on the sofa and giving him a slightly crooked, utterly charming smile. “So. What did you want to talk about?”

Sherlock shifts _Murder in Marylebone_ where it rests on his thighs. “I finished the book.”

“You told me that,” John nods, glancing at the book as well. “And I like to believe I would have figured that out, considering…”

He chuckles and waves his hand toward the novel, which Sherlock has marked up a bit with a few sticky notes and dog-ears. Before Sherlock can respond, John slides closer, picks up Sherlock’s hand, and kisses his pale knuckles. “And what did you think?”

His lips tug upwards, though he feels oddly shy. “It was... good.”

John’s eyebrows lift, and an amused look plays across his features. “Just good? That’s it? That’s all I get?”

Sherlock chuckles. Even after just a few days apart, John’s ability to charm and enrapture him is hitting him all over again. Most people Sherlock finds idiotic and tiresome, but John he finds fascinating. And spending time with him in person, not just indirectly through his printed words, has proven even more exhilarating.

So, he talks.

“Alright, fine. It was more than good. Obviously.”

John grins and moves again, turning to the side a bit and propping his head up on his elbow, which he places on the back of the sofa. “Yeah? I like obviously good. Go on.”

“Well, you brought back Sherrinford. How could I not praise that?”

“Of course I brought him back,” John says. His gaze is riveted directly upon Sherlock’s eyes, as if he is attempting to memorize their precise shape and shade. “He’s Sherrinford. Nothing kills that cat.”

His tone, his expression, and something about the gentle sparkle in his eyes—all that evokes an odd feeling in Sherlock. He feels as if he has been transported back to a time well before uni, in a smaller classroom with a much less well-stocked chemistry lab, burning cobalt oxide and aluminium oxide, and watching, enchanted, at the seemingly miraculous result. This sensation returns to him now, the delight of new, unknown territory, and it encourages him. He begins to speak, with gestures and gesticulations, all about the book. Sherrinford’s return, Sacker’s quiet fury at the fact he has been lied to for three years, and the case that forces the two men back together at last.

“You handled it well,” he says some time later, feeling much more confident now that the conversation concerns a topic he knows so well. “Sherrinford’s feelings, how they were so conflicted. He was happy he was home, but upset about falling out with James. And he’s so… bad with people normally, so he doesn’t know how to handle this. But that conversation they had, after James defused the bomb, it was… good. They needed to talk about things.”

John smiles, ducking his head slightly. Is he unused to hearing this sort of praise? How can that be? “Thank you. It was a hell of a scene to write, though. My editor and I went over it a half dozen times, I think, before we were both finally satisfied.”

“And the actual bomb-defusing scene was excellent,” Sherlock adds. “From what I can tell, it was accurate.”

John laughs and—in a move that is much more assured than Sherlock has probably ever felt in a scenario like this—slides his arm across the back of the sofa so it drapes behind Sherlock’s shoulders. “Oh, and you’re an expert in bomb disposal now?” His voice is light and full of gentle laughter.

“No,” Sherlock shakes his head and rolls his eyes. However, he also adjusts his position so he more fully leans into John’s arm, which moves in response to squeeze his shoulder. “But I did have a brief fling with the study of forensics and crime-solving.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned,” John nods, looking intrigued. He seems to be hoping Sherlock will elaborate, but the chemistry student feels that this is not the time to get into that. Instead, he turns his gaze back to the annotated pages of _Marylebone_.

“Oh, and the scene where James finds out how Sherrinford actually faked his death,” he says, flipping to a new page. “I had a question about one thing there—”

They end up discussing the book for nearly another hour. As the minutes pass, Sherlock relaxes in John’s reassuring presence. The writer is an excellent audience as well as skilled at discourse, providing insights and feedback from such a unique point of view: the creator of these stories, these characters, this world. However, Sherlock is startled by the way John seems to see his books: as mere entertainment. _Light_ entertainment, no less.

“I mean yes, I want the characters to be relatable and interesting, and the plots to be enjoyable, of course I do,” John says, when Sherlock asks him about this. “But, I mean, I’ve never tried to be _literature_.”

“John,” Sherlock murmurs. “You sell yourself short.”

John just shakes his head, waving a hand in dismissal.

“No, John don’t be an idiot,” he insists. “Your books are… well—” He stutters to a halt, abruptly unsure how to speak.

And that is strange to him. Usually he cannot stop himself from saying things, even things better left unsaid. Plenty of people at university revile him for this, and he has developed a reputation for being rude, even cruel on occasion. So why, when what he could say might be truly important, can he not find the words?

This is why, he supposes, the poetry comes so naturally to him. Sometimes, the words seem to rush through him effortlessly. Writing them down gives him a chance to think, and adjust meanings and connotations. And now he would much rather be having this conversation on paper instead of with a real, flesh and blood, engaging person like John Watson.

“Sherlock?” John coaxes softly.

“Nothing, never mind,” Sherlock says. He shifts the conversation back to Sherrinford, and the logistics of how he survived that waterfall. John allows the change, but seems to be watching Sherlock with a more thoughtful expression now.

But with the dialogue safely back on the specifics of the plot, Sherlock feels the tension within himself again seeping away. John, despite being an at least modestly famous author, is quite easy to converse with. Sherlock discovered that at the book signing, but the revelation still fascinates him. After all, most people are tiresome. And yet here, on the sofa with John’s arm around him, he feels his smiles coming without bidding for the first time in a long time.

In fact, he becomes more and more physically animated, which he unfortunately does not notice until he almost swats John in the face. John has to lean back quickly to avoid Sherlock’s ungainly, flailing limb.

“I’m sorry,” he says, another oddity. He rarely apologizes. But again, John seems to be becoming his exception to most everything. He slides away from John, toward the end of the sofa.

“Hey, it’s okay,” John says with a chuckle.

But doubt has abruptly seeped in again, and Sherlock suddenly wonders. Is this really how dates usually go? Surely John is expecting something… more. “You probably didn’t expect me to come simply to talk about your books.” He ducks his head. “I suspect you grow weary of discussing them with fans.”

“No, Sherlock,” John takes his hand. “You’re a little more than just a fan, remember? I mean, asked you out for coffee. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m interested to know what you have to say.”

“Still,” Sherlock murmurs. He bites his lip and peers up at John, suddenly feeling so self-conscious. John watches him, looking a little surprised and baffled. A small crease appears in his forehead to accompany that expression, and Sherlock fiercely shoves down the thought that _God, that’s strangely attractive_.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs. “You shouldn’t downplay your enthusiasm, okay? Not for anything, especially not with a captive audience like me, right here and now.”

He moves in and places a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, which draws an elated smile out onto Sherlock’s face.

“I know,” he says when John pulls back.

“Hey, just so you know, any time you want to talk about the books—or anything else, actually—you can. I really enjoy listening to you.”

Before Sherlock can formulate an answer, however, John’s stomach makes a soft rumble. “Are we going to get lunch?” he says instead.

“Ah,” John nods. “Good idea. Although actually, I was thinking I could cook us a meal here. I’ve got some chicken I really need to do something with.”

“Oh,” Sherlock feels a thrill shiver through him at the thought that John wants to spend more time with him, alone. “You cook?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” John laughs as he rises to his feet and strides into the kitchen.

Sherlock follows and observes as John pulls out ingredients and tools from cabinets and the refrigerator. “Do you require assistance?”

“Oh, that’s alright,” John flashes him that damn smile again. “You’re the guest, sit down.”

Sherlock obeys, pulling up a stool at the small table in the center of the space. “So what were you working on when I arrived?”

John shrugs. “Just some notes, nothing serious.”

“For another book?” Sherlock asks. He perks up, interest flooding his system, like the way a colored solution seeps through the translucent contents of a beaker.

“Maybe.” John starts cutting chicken breasts into cubes with intriguing finesse. “I had an idea some time back and only just recently found the note about it again. So, a few days ago, I thought, since _Marylebone_ is finally out, I could see what I can make of this idea. So I’ve just been writing up an outline, something tentative, you know? I got on a roll this morning.”

Sherlock nods. “May I… see? Or is that overstepping?”

John regards him for a moment while he stirs garlic that he has started cooking in a pan. “Yeah, alright. But—” He brandishes a wooden spoon. “You have to promise not to share what you read with _anyone_ , okay?”

Sherlock smirks. “You have my word.”

“Good,” John nods, seemingly satisfied, for he turns back to his cooking.

Meanwhile, Sherlock wastes no time in moving back into the sitting room and to the desk. Spread across its surface is a scattering of papers and notebooks covered in handwritten notes, flowcharts, and bullet points. There is also a closed laptop and a chipped mug that has been repurposed to contain a motley cluster of writing utensils. Sherlock identifies the notebook John was writing in earlier in mere moments and opens it. It falls open to the most recent page readily; John opens and closes this particular book frequently.

Sherlock scans the notes. Much of it is written in some sort of shorthand/abbreviation system, much in fragmented phrases and somewhat nonsensical sentences. He does see a few character names, details, and a timeline marked up with arrows. However, most of it seems to be very much still in the formative stages, judging from the sheer number of question marks and crossings-out.

He lifts his head and turns to see John watching him from the kitchen, lips curled upward in a warm smile.

“Is this how you usually start your books?” Sherlock asks.

“Sometimes,” John is now stirring something in a pot. “Sometimes I just sit down at the laptop and the words rush out of me unplanned. All I can do those times is make sure my fingers keep up with my brain. But those are the best writing days. Other times it starts like what you’re looking at, all notes and half-formed ideas. I can usually cobble together a loose plot from that. Course, multiple drafts later, the stories often don’t resemble my notes at all.”

Sherlock nods and flicks through the rest of the notebook. Some of its contents, he notices, are old outlines of Sherrinford and Sacker novels. He has to bite down on a giddy, audible response to that sight and is grateful John is occupied again by cooking and has not noticed his guest’s excitement.

After several minutes of perusing these old notes, Sherlock hears John’s footsteps approaching. The writer joins him at the table, leaning his hip against it.

“The sauce has to thicken a bit, so I’ve got a few minutes,” he explains. “So. What do you think?”

“I see you don’t write your stories on paper, or with a typewriter.” Sherlock smirks a bit. “I thought all the great writers do one or the other.”

John laughs. “Oh, that’s how it is?” He crosses his arms, putting on an air of indignation, but which is betrayed by his laughter and twinkling eyes. “Well, I’ve tried using paper once, when I was totally blocked. I thought changing the medium might help.”

“Did it?”

“Definitely not,” John shakes his head ruefully. “I scrapped that entire story, actually. Moved onto other things. In fact...” he muses. “That was the story I worked on before coming up with Sherrinford.”

Sherlock brightens at the mention of the detective. “Really? What was that story? Was it anything like Sherrinford’s?”

“Not even close,” John chuckles. “If I recall correctly, it was some awful adventure tale involving a… tiger, I think? Or a lion. I’m not even sure anymore. It’s been a long while since I’ve even thought about that. Like I said, it was rubbish.”

Sherlock huffs a soft laugh. “Do you still have it?”

“Probably around here somewhere…” John trails off with a glance at the bookshelves, and his eyes widen slightly at something he sees in Sherlock’s face. “Oh, no. Don’t you dare even think about looking for it. You’re forbidden!”

But Sherlock darts for the bookshelves, laughter bubbling involuntarily out of him as if from a burst tap. John cries out and moves to intercept him. A brief, giggle-ridden struggle ends seconds later with Sherlock pressed between John and the shelf, his wrists pinned shoulder-level against the wood.

Immediately, John seems to recognize the tactical error he has made. Sherlock sees it too, and his heartbeat sets to pounding. Their innocent teasing laughter has faded to echoes, and they are pressed close together, and John’s lips are centimeters from his own. If the writer were to just tilt his head up and lean forward…

Standing there, Sherlock subdues a shiver. He feels as if he and John are on a precipice, in a droplet suspended at the end of a pipette over a solution, poised and anticipating the incendiary reaction.

“John…” he breathes, and finds his voice has dipped to a lower octave and taken on an almost husky lilt. Is there no end to the ways in which John affects him?

“Can I kiss you, Sherlock?” John whispers after a tense few seconds of silence. And trapped under John’s gaze, so affectionate and yet desirous, tender and yet ardent, he feels a somewhat foreign sense of confidence well up within him.

“I don’t know, can you?” he says, that confidence deciding to manifest, apparently, as playful teasing.

John lets out a bark of laughter. Then, in a burst of energy like the shattering of a nucleus, he _moves_ , presses their mouths together in a zealous kiss, relaxes his hands on Sherlock’s wrists, clutches at his shirt. The moment Sherlock is free to do so, he wraps his arms around John. As the taller man pulls him even closer, John lets out a low groan and grazes his tongue across Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock shudders at the sensation and parts his lips slightly, and the kiss deepens.

They stand there pressed against the books, exploring each other’s mouths and bodies, for several minutes. Finally, John retreats, and Sherlock opens his eyes reluctantly.

John grins at him, his eyes shining with joy and mirth, his hair a little mussed. Sherlock wonders what he looks like, if his hair has gone all poofy-frizzy like it does sometimes. Quite plausible, since seconds ago John was running his fingers through it with surprising enthusiasm.

“You okay?” John asks.

Sherlock inclines his head, both in answer to John’s query and to attempt to hide how red his face is. He brushes his fingers through his now-disheveled curls as they both get their breath back. Then, barely a moment after Sherlock feels he has enough oxygen in his bloodstream again, John smacks one last kiss on Sherlock’s mouth.

“Show you not to be such a grammar snob,” he growls with a grin, a mere hairsbreadth from the other man’s skin.

Sherlock chuckles. “ _You’re_ the published author.”

John takes a small step back and rubs his neck, huffing a muted laugh.

“Right, but come on. I’m spending quality time with a dashing chemistry student. That gives me leave to let my grammar slip a bit, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock tries to pretend his cheeks are not continuing to celebrate being back to their old, blushing ways once more. “I don’t know about that… I was only teasing. Besides, you’re right. Grammar is tedious. The rules are many times outdated and arbitrary, not accepting of colloquial or modern usage.”

John snickers, his countenance declaring, somehow, that listening to Sherlock is the most interesting, splendid thing he has done in a long time. As if Sherlock’s opinions are the most stimulating opinions in the world. “So you don’t mind if I, oh I don’t know, end sentences with a preposition?” He is beaming. “Or split my infinitives? Or ignore parallel structure?”

“John, as you’ve already mentioned, I’m a chemistry student. Do you really think I care about _infinitives_?” he crinkles his nose, but soon has to join in John’s renewed laughter. They giggle together, still inches apart. Soon enough, John crowds close again as if pulled by a magnet. He locks their lips together once more.

When they break apart this time, Sherlock hesitates to open his eyes. He does not desire to move from this spot, from this point in time. If he could suspend them in a solution, preserve them here together like this for all eternity, he thinks he might.

The next best thing is to do just that to this memory in his mind palace, so that is what he does.

**Author's Note:**

> I am in need of your help, dear reader. In this AU, John has 9 books published. 6 are in the Sherrinford and Sacker series, and 3 are novels that don’t connect to any of his other writings. I’ve named all the S&S books, but for the life of me, I cannot come up with titles for his standalones. So if anyone has an idea for a mystery book title John might use, whether inspired by the BBC show or by Conan Doyle’s canon, leave a comment! If I like your ideas, you’ll see the titles featured in a later installment in this series! Thank you!
> 
> Some meta info:  
> 1\. John’s flat is located somewhere in the vicinity of Kensington, where, in Conan Doyle’s canonical stories, Watson has a medical practice there for a while. In this day and age, the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea is overall pretty hella expensive, even for London standards. Which is why I have John living on the edge of it—semi-posh. He’s not JK Rowling or Stephen King, after all. Also fun fact, this particular borough contains Notting Hill, where John had the book signing in A Novel Meeting.  
> 2\. Sherlock’s mention of a rather volatile “meeting of iodine and ammonia” is a description of a nitride triiodide reaction, which is really cool in a don’t-try-this-at-home-I-beg-you kind of way. Look it up if you’re interested; there are several video demos of this on the internet!  
> 3\. Cobalt oxide and aluminium oxide, when burned, makes cobalt blue, which is a famous dye that has been used for centuries. It’s also quite a lovely shade, and in my own mind, Sherlock thinks of it because the color subconsciously reminds him of John’s eyes. :)  
> 4\. John’s description of his scrapped story about a tiger is an allusion to a story Conan Doyle wrote at a very young age. It was called “The Story of the Bengal Tiger” and was, like John's, never published.  
> 5\. Both the title of this story and Sherlock’s mention of “a burst of energy like the shattering of a nucleus” are, as you probably figured out, making a pun out of/referencing nuclear fission.


End file.
